Cuts Both Ways
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Sometimes friendship can be a liability. A KGB agent tries to make Scotty talk by working on Kelly.


"We can make this much less unpleasant, Mr. Scott, if you just tell us where the list is."

Scotty writhed in the grip of the two men who held him, his partner held by a similar pair of dark-suited heavyweights across the cement-walled room; it had the peculiar smell of a prison, although it was, he'd seen upon entering, the basement of a skiing lodge nestled high up on a pinnacle of the Austrian Alps._ A dungeon by any other name would smell as rank. _"Now you know I can't do that, Vladimir – I can call you Vladimir, can't I? I'd be fired, and you know how that would put a crimp in my lifestyle. I know the government pay's not much, but there's a great pension plan. The old folks' home has the cutest nurses…"

The line of patter was cut off in a gasp as one of the dark suits drove a meaty fist into Kelly's stomach.

Kelly let out a grunt, immediately followed by a slightly breathless tirade of surprise and indignation. "Hey! What are you hitting me for? He's the one who knows where the list is! I'm just an innocent bystander here! I want you to know I protest this in the strongest terms, and you can be sure I'll be writing my congressman about this unbecoming and inhumane…"

"A gag is not compulsory, Mr. Robinson, but I'm beginning to think it's imperative unless you shut up."

Scotty glowered at 'Comrade' Vladimir Dmitryev of the KGB, affectionately known around the Pentagon as Vlad the Impaler for his use of an ice pick. The man favored him with a cold stare. Scotty was going to have to amend his theorem that things were never simple when they went behind the Iron Curtain to include going anywhere near that menacing barrier. That definitely included being followed into Austria by KGB agents and 'asked' to cough up the whereabouts of a list of American agents in USSR military installations that they were supposed to be delivering.

Come to that, he thought as he watched Kelly twist and struggle ineffectually in the arms of his impassive, black-suited captors, he would also put on that list any encounter with KGB agents that didn't involve the latter being behind bars.

As Scotty was shoved down onto a metal chair bolted to the floor and his bare arms wrenched behind him, he twisted his shoulders right and left again in an attempt to break the grip of the two behemoths holding him. The food on the steppes must pack some kind of super-fortified vitamins; they seemed made from solid rock. His hands were bound behind him with plastic cord, the kind washing-lines were made of, from what he could see of the coiling length trailing on the floor and whipping about this way and that; his feet followed, secured to the chair-legs. Well, a chair's something, he thought; at least these guys were not of the shackles-to-the-wall school. He supposed there wasn't all that much creativity you could get up to in a Tyrolean villa. He hoped.

With Scotty bound, Dmitryev turned his attention to Kelly. Rapping out instructions in Russian to the men who held his partner, pointing at the struggling man's knees and ankles, the KGB boss had them bind Kel's hands in front. Still squirming like an eel, Kelly twisted free of them, although Scotty wasn't sure why at this point – four on one would have defeated anyone but James Bond. Kelly was grabbed again as Scotty watched in mounting unease – for he doubted it was philanthropy that made them bind his partner's hands in a position that made it easy to escape.

It wasn't. After Kelly's hands were securely bound, one KGB tied his ankles together while another held him upside-down like a rag doll, Kelly's t-shirt and jacket bunching up around his armpits. Scotty had an irrational urge to tug them back down as the back of his mind started to fill with a nameless dread. "Hey," he said. "Hey, can't we talk this over? You know, like civilized folks? I can offer you my mom's recipe for pecan pie…"

"He's lying," Kelly grated as they let go of him, dumping him onto the tile floor. "He doesn't know her recipe."

"Now how do you _know_ that, Holmes? I mean, you're just saying that, aren't you, conclusions based on no evidence again, because it just so happens that I do. Last time we were in…"

But the breath left Scotty's lungs as the men wrenched Kelly into a crouch, shoving his knees up through the circle of his arms made by his bound wrists, bending him over with his arms wrapped around his knees. One of Vladimir's men handed the KGB boss a four-foot length of lead pipe, which he slipped behind Kelly's knees, crosswise through his bent legs, above his elbows, preventing him straightening up or removing his arms. Sticking out on either side, the seemingly innocuous pipe was effectively keeping him trapped in that position until it was pulled out.

Working quickly, Vladimir pushed up the ankles of the white canvas jeans and bound Kelly's clasped wrists securely to his ankles, to prevent Kelly pulling his legs out of his arms' embrace. Kelly's eyes flashed with alarm, quickly concealed, as one muscleman took hold of either end of the pipe. He abruptly screwed his eyes shut tight as they lifted it, effectively hanging him up by the pole wedged behind his bound knees, rested it across two heavy desks and roped each end of the metal pole to an eyehook on each desk, obviously fitted there for that express purpose, leaving Kelly suspended in mid-air, head dangling down to the floor.

_His joints,_ Scotty's consciousness flared up into a single overriding panic,_ his joints!_ They were still worn down and stressed from that experience with the rack. Suspension—a torture that targeted the musculoskeletal system—would be excruciating, and worse, it would damage what Kelly couldn't afford to have damaged, could impair his movement for the rest of his life.

"Good," Vladimir said in Russian, and his employees stepped back. Kelly swung in midair, breathing hard, knees bent, arms strained, back forcibly bent over the pole.

He looked at Scotty and winked.

Scotty's stomach clenched. He knew it was wrong to speak, knew he should remain impassive like a good agent. Speaking was a weakness. It would give your enemies access to your weak points. He wouldn't speak.

But Scotty's eyes never left his partner.

One of the assistants pushed Kelly so he swung. Scotty heard Kel's breath hitch, felt the sound in his heart. He could almost feel the knees popping, ached to imagine it, as Kelly looked away, unable to keep his brave face on. Tied up like that, his range of movement was limited, though, and Scotty couldn't quite hide his grimace as gravity pulled the lean body down, contorted and swinging from the bent knees, the head hanging down backwards like a lead weight, the shoulders pulled forward, the forced curvature of the spine, _his poor joints_. "Why are you doing this to him?" Scotty blurted. "I'm the one who knows where the list is. It's me you want, man."

Vladimir turned to him smoothly. "True."

"Well then, why do you have me on this—thing like a Peking—duck?" Kelly groused, only the unevenness of his breath revealing his strain. "You heard the man, go tie—_him_ up! Let me go," Scotty watched as he stopped and gasped raggedly, "I got a date to get ready for. There 's this little Viennese waitress…" but he trailed off at the man's upraised hand.

"Amusing." The KGB man's tone indicated it was nothing of the sort, and Scotty glared at Kelly. _Never annoy a man famous for using an ice pick on his victims._ He turned to Scotty. "Mr. Scott, I'm well aware that you're the one who knows where the list is. So tell me: Why would I not torture you to get it?"

_You are,_ the thought came unbidden, but he refused to respond.

"I would suggest you answer me," Vladimir said, his tone anything but a suggestion.

Scotty forced himself to calm down. Suspension worked as a torture by being cumulative (_that's only_, his mind supplied treacherously, _if you haven't had every bone in your poor ol' body nearly pulled out of its socket and sustained roughening of the joints not two months ago_.) He silenced his misgivings, for their only chance now was to think like professionals, keep a cool head. Five minutes would not be enough time for the torture to take hold—the list of effects in the Agency manual jumped to the forefront of his mind— oh man, he detested his eidetic memory— shooting pains, burning muscles, agonizing cramps, eroded joints, eventual partial paralysis, possible total—he swept it from his mind firmly. Right now, he would not show vulnerability and _he would not speak_.

"No answer?" Without warning, the KGB boss lashed out, fast and vicious, with his booted foot, the reinforced toe striking with surgical precision right at Kelly's exposed tailbone.

"Hey!" Scotty yelled, straining at his bonds as Kelly jerked and bit off a grunt, trying to control his reaction. "I'll answer you, okay? I'll answer! Just… just don't, okay?" He looked to Kelly, hoping for a witty response, but the handsome face was twisted in a grimace, and it was obviously all his partner could do just to keep silent.

"Again. Remember the penalty for defiance. Why wouldn't I torture you for the list, Mr. Scott?"

Scotty began speaking rapidly, one eye on Kelly, who was taking deep, shaky breaths to control himself. "Violent torture can break a man in minutes, but it renders what he says unreliable."

"Excellent. How better, then, to make you speak and keep your mind intact than to torture another before your eyes? As a man of compassion…"

"Your intel was wrong," Kelly gasped. "The man—kicks puppies."

The pain in Kelly's voice cut like a knife, but the humor in his tone sparked something in Scotty. It took no effort to respond in kind. "He's right, you know. I'm a scoundrel, man. No compassion anywhere in here."

Vladimir was Not Amused. "Not for your friend and colleague, one whom, according to the intelligence reports, you are very fond of? You have been referred to as brothers."

"Aw, c'mon, man," Scotty whined, "how could this guy ever be taken for any brother of mine? Brother! He wears loafers, man, he has no fashion sense! He's been seen at a formal dinner in a…"

The kick, twice as hard and in exactly the same place, came out of nowhere and this time Kelly cried out, quickly cut off as he gritted his teeth. His bound legs bucked in their bonds. Scotty had no time to react as Vladimir, impassive, reared back—and kicked Kelly again.

Scotty's cry rang out with Kelly's animal, inhuman howl, and he felt tears burn his eyes. _"Don't!"_ he pleaded, pulling at his bonds as Kelly writhed, moaning, in an impotent attempt to ease the terrible pain in his back, the thin body visibly convulsing as his instinct to straighten up was thwarted by the contorted position he was forced into. "Don't, c'mon, please don't," Scotty pleaded, eyes riveted on his partner, seeing him as though through a wall of flame. "I'm sorry, man, just don't! C'mon, whatever you want, I'll do it!"

"You know what we want."

But he couldn't just… the names of a hundred agents were on that list, men and women he would be betraying into agony and death. "Just… don't…" Scotty shook his head. This was worse than a nightmare.

Vladimir said calmly, "You know that all you need to do to end his suffering is to say the word."

"And get—killed," came Kelly's tortured gasp. Even through his own pain, Scotty was heartened to hear the defiance still in Kelly's voice.

"No, indeed," said the Soviet agent, turning to him frankly, stepping back out of range of any more kicks. Scotty breathed. "I have the greatest respect for you, as fellow-agents. You are doing a job for your country, the same as I am for mine. I need that list before it arrives in London. That is all I need. Killing you is not part of my plan, not part of my orders. Not even my desire." He paused. "Agent Scott, our intelligence tells us that you have an eidetic memory."

"They lied, man. It only works sometimes."

"He still—can't find—the shirt I loaned him… three years ago." Kelly's gasping tones still carried a hint of lightness.

Vladimir's eyes narrowed. "Agent Scott, if you have read my file, read it again in your mind. It will tell you that Vladimir Dmitryev is not a murderer. A torturer out of necessity, a killer if he must be, but not a murderer in cold blood." Scotty didn't nod, didn't give him any indication that his words had rung true. "And a man of his word. You have my word that your lives are safe—if I get that list." His tone turned almost gentle. "We can all win."

"Except," Kelly had to stop and get his breathing under control, "the people—on—that," he gasped again, "that list."

Scotty was grateful to Kelly for saying it, because he wasn't sure he could remember the significance of the list any more. Vladimir spread his hands. "Fortunes of war, I believe you say in your country?"

Scotty could not trust himself to speak.

The KGB boss stepped closer to Scotty. "I shall tell you what I plan to do. I know you will not give me the location of the list immediately; even if you did, I should treat that information as false." The grey eyes fixed him with a stare. "I know you are trained to lie, and lie convincingly. While I do have some time leeway – since you are here and not en route to London – I do not have time to trace false leads."

If he'd expected Scotty to respond, he was disappointed. "So here is what I shall do. I shall give you several chances. First, I shall leave you for three hours. That should be enough time for the…tactic…to take effect. You can put a stop to it at any point during that time, if it becomes too… intense… for Mr. Robinson."

Scotty remained, he hoped, impassive. It presented a better image than throwing up all over the guy's shoes. "Then I shall come in, and ask you. If you prove uncooperative, I shall… give your Mr. Robinson a few strategic blows."

Matter-of-factly, Dmitryev slipped an ice pick from his pocket.

Scotty's insides turned to water, and he dimly registered Kelly's head snapping round. "_Then _I shall ask you again. If your answer is not satisfactory, Mr. Robinson will remain in position for another twelve hours. Then we will come in again, and deliver a few more strategically positioned blows."

The KGB agent looked at him mildly. "It is your choice, Mr. Scott. Good day."

The men filed out and the door clicked shut behind them.

Kelly's face, when he looked around, was drenched with sweat. "Well, here's another fine mess—you've gotten us into."

"How're you feeling, Kel?" Scotty hated himself for the inanity of the question, but it was out.

"I'd feel happier—by the pool—with a blonde—thanks for asking."

Scotty closed his eyes. He should have foreseen this, he should have known they would try something like this, to use his affection for his partner against him! And now he was faced with an impossible decision: stand by and let this happen to Kelly, or condemn a hundred people to a terrible death?

"Sweet Adeline—this is Amazing Grace. You copy? 10-4! Hey? You in there, good buddy? Over!"

Scotty snapped guiltily back to the present. "Yeah."

"Don't go off like that, Jack. It's bad enough—without company. Oh, man, if I get out of this, I'll never complain about writer's cramp again."

Kelly lifted his head, holding it high until it trembled on his neck, and let it drop backwards with a grunt. It had not occurred to Scotty, but now he realized that the weight of the head, hanging backwards towards the floor, was cramping the vertebrae, compressing the nerves, and with time, would become—had become—exquisitely painful. He watched Kelly roll his head sideways to relieve the pressure. "You'll never complain about writer's cramp? Only way you get to complain about writer's cramp is if you ever actually get writer's cramp, and you gotta get that by actually writing," he shot back lightly.

"What's that… supposed to mean?" Kelly, still rotating his head, seemed to welcome the diversion.

"Means you never write the reports, man."

"Oh yeah? …What about that time when… _ah!"_

Scotty jerked as Kelly convulsed and cried out involuntarily. Scotty clenched his fists and forced himself to watch, although he was lightheaded by the time the spasms in the bound limbs finally subsided.

This time, Kelly fell silent, and Scotty had to restrain himself from asking Kelly how bad the pain was getting. He wrenched at his bonds, and tried to say something light, but his head was buzzing and he couldn't manage it.

* * *

They stayed like that for a while. He wasn't sure how long it was, but Kelly's cramps and shakes were getting more obvious, and more frequent, and Scotty was pretty sure that if they hadn't been together, Kel would have been vocalizing his pain instead of hiding it behind the clenched facial muscles and bared teeth. The sweat was pouring off him in rivulets now, and Scotty knew, although it felt like an eternity, that they hadn't even passed the two-hour mark yet.

He started when Kelly spoke. "We need," the suffering man panted, "A plan."

"There's no _plan_, man," Scotty said, voice low, wrenching furiously at his bonds. "They've got us where they want us." He paused as an idea occurred to him. "Listen. Maybe _you_ could tell them you know where the list is…"

"Don't gimme—dumb ideas—when I'm in no condition—to make fun of you," Kelly panted. "How would that help, huh?" He took a few moments to get his breathing under control again. "They'd just… give us more of the same…" His head lolled limply and his eyes rolled back, giving Scotty a moment of pure panic before he spoke again. "O—only worse."

Scotty looked at Kelly, indecisive, miserable. The shooting pains had clearly started, judging by the way Kelly was stiffening, then taking a deep breath and consciously relaxing, doing his best to ride the pain out. _I'm gonna tell them,_ he thought_. I'm gonna tell them, and then I can try and catch up to them when they let us go, maybe—take them out?—before they can deliver the information_.

"You can't… tell them," Kelly gasped. "There's people depending on us. We…_ah_…we can't sell them… down the river."

_No, I should sell you out instead._ Scotty clamped down on the bitter thought before it could escape, and twisted and tugged violently at his bonds again, hoping to imagine he could feel them loosening. He didn't look Kelly in the face.

But he'd underestimated Kelly. "Scotty," his partner gasped, his earnest, tormented eyes easily catching Scotty's, "I know there'll come a time when I'll be begging you to tell them everything, just to make it stop. Maybe—maybe sooner than we think." The grey-green gaze hardened, boring into Scotty' face. "But even if I do—you can't listen to me. This is—" his breath hitched, "the one secret we can't give up…" A tremor shook him, but he gritted his teeth and soldiered on. Scotty could see the muscle in his jaw jump. "This isn't a submarine or some blueprints, Jack! These are the guys and girls we work with, agents undercover. We can't…" He twisted his head away, panting. "We can't let—_this_—happen—to them, too."

Scotty looked down at the man he had known for years, his partner, his brother, his friend. Trussed up, contorted, sweating, racked with pain, caring only that others should not be made to suffer as he was suffering, Kelly Robinson had never seemed as magnificent as he did in this moment. All Scotty could do for a long instant was stare as though seeing him anew, flooded with a respect so intense as to be a revelation, accompanied by a pain he had not known could exist. He took a shuddering breath. "You're just saying that because you want to spend a few more days in sunny Austria."

"Nah, it rained la—last week." Rapid, shallow breaths. "As a vacation spot… I'm not too… thrilled with it. The view's just no—ot—" This time, Kelly gritted his teeth, arched his head back and clamped down on a keening whine. Every muscle on his body stood out, rigid, as he writhed, cry after cry forced out of him, as his already injured joints began to cave under the strain. His breathing came fast and harsh as he tried to ride out the spasms, but Scotty could see he was losing the battle, and the cramping wasn't letting up...

Scotty wasn't aware of yelling until he saw, as though from a distance, the door swinging open and Vladimir coming through it, followed by two of his muscular men. The Soviet agent just stood there, glancing down at Kelly, cool gaze flickering up to Scotty.

"I'll tell you, man."

"Scotty, no!"

"I will not accept lies."

He ignored Vladimir's words. "The list's with another agent, in Vienna. She won't give it up unless she sees both of us. If you take us to her… _No!"_

Vladimir's response to Scotty's words had been to deliver another precise kick to Kelly's already injured tailbone, and Scotty's frantic denial was drowned out by Kelly's hoarse scream. Kelly convulsed in good earnest, uncontrollable groans spilling from his throat, as Scotty pulled and strained at the ropes that bound him, his frantic struggles ineffectual against his bonds. The KGB boss turned a disappointed gaze on him. "Really, Agent Scott. Did you sincerely expect me to fall for such a transparent ploy?"

In other circumstances, Scotty might have thought it had been worth a try in any case—but this time he cursed himself for the attempt. A jolt of shock went through him as the Russian drew back his foot menacingly. "NO! Don't hit him there again! Please, not there again!" he begged shamelessly. "Please. No more. I'll do whatever you want."

The KGB agent placed his foot back on the ground, then turned to one of his aides, holding out a hand palm up. "In fact, it is just as well that you called, as I was just about to come in," he said, with only slightly more gravitas than if he were discussing coming early to a business meeting. "My comrades in Command tell me that I have less time than I originally thought," he said slowly. The aide placed the ice pick in his hand. Kelly was too far gone in his suffering to notice the new threat, but Scotty couldn't suppress a soundless gasp. "I may have to start the strategic blows early."

With that, he knelt carefully, holding the pick next to Kelly's curved and trembling spine, reaching out large, thick fingers while feeling his vertebrae clinically, like a surgeon. Kelly stirred slightly, shaking off his agony, trying to move his head, although it only twitched weakly on his neck. "…Scotty?"

Through the ice-cold chill that gripped him, Scotty managed to yell, "No, man!" The Russian's hand slowed, but didn't still. Frantically, Scotty kept speaking. "It's in my head. The list's in my head."

"Scotty!" Kelly yelled frantically.

Vladimir didn't pocket the pick, but he didn't move it any closer to Kelly's back. His eyes flicked up with equanimity. "I know."

Scotty's eyes widened. He'd been underestimating their Russian counterpart. Rage flooded him. "Then WHY are you doing this to my partner!" he yelled.

Vladmir's gaze was impassive. "To get it _out_ of your head."

Kelly stirred again, knowing only that Dmitryev was next to him, but unaware of the danger. "Scotty, don't…"

Vladimir moved the pick, placed the point against Kelly's fourth lumbar vertebra, took a good grip on the handle with his powerful fist, and held it there. The grey eyes looked up at Scotty questioningly.

Scotty was silent a bare instant. Then he spoke. "Valentina Kouznetsova."

"Scotty, no!"

"Olga Vassileva. Valery Konstantin," he recited. Limp with relief, he saw the hand holding the metal spike fall away from Kelly's spine.

_"Scotty!"_

"Doesn't matter, man. Andrei Illyich..."

"Scotty, that's enough! You can—still—stop…"

The KGB man looked slightly stunned, as though he had not expected capitulation this easily. "How do I know these are not false names?"

"You can verify 'em. Any means you choose. But put that thing away and cut him down first. Cut him down and I'll tell you the rest."

Vladimir's eyes narrowed. "What is it they say, Mr. Scott? 'Nice try'? I'm perfectly aware, as I know you are, that transmissions in this area are not secure. If they were, the Department wouldn't be sending agents running all over the Alps with a list that could just as easily be relayed by radio, or high-speed telephone. I can't verify the names without alerting unwanted channels. Any person whose name I broadcast would be alerted, and with the wireless range here and the delay it takes for relay, in the time it takes the transmission to be decoded, the agents would have more than enough time—any half-trained _Kosmosol_ scout would have time—to terminate ops and escape. And since you knew that…"

The hand holding the pick flashed out, making violent contact with Kelly's spine.

"NO!" Scotty screamed. Kelly jerked so violently he nearly upended the desk. His body bucked in the restraints, and his harsh breath rose into a guttural scream as Scotty yelled in good earnest, in defeat and despair. He kept screaming as his partner's lean body writhed, gasping, the bared back showing a swollen lump at the bottom of the spinal cord. "No, no, no, no, no…"

Vladimir raised his hand from behind Kelly's body, which had been shielding his movements. It took Scotty a few seconds to register that he was holding the pick by the point, nestled in his giant palm.

Sluggishly, Scotty's stunned brain processed what his eyes were seeing: Kel's back wasn't bleeding. Vladimir had struck him with the handle.

In the dizzying rush of relief, Scotty almost, almost said 'Thank you'.

"What should I do, Mr. Scott?"

Shaking his head, Scotty forced himself to look away from Kelly, still twisting in agony. _Slipped or fractured disc, maybe,_ Scotty feared, even as he turned murderous, frantic eyes on Vladimir. "I'm not trying to trick you, man! Transmissions are _your_ problem!"

"And treachery is yours." Vladimir turned the pick in his hand.

Controlling his nerves, Scotty spoke fast. "Just verify _one_. Sure he'll get tipped off, but what's one name in exchange for the 99 others?"

Vladimir thought for a second, and nodded. He scrawled a name on a piece of paper, handed it to an aide. "Verify this," he told the man in Russian, and the man strode briskly off.

The room was silent but for the small, stifled sounds of Kelly's suffering. Scotty looked at the Russian, sick to his stomach. "You can cut him down, man. It'll come up okay."

"Not until I have all the names, for otherwise I shall have no guarantee that you will keep your part of the bargain."

His eyes clouded with pain, Kelly glanced from the KGB man to the chair where Scotty was bound, his voice pleading. _"Scotty…"_

"No can do, Kel. He'll verify it, and I'll tell him the rest, and he'll cut you down. There's no other way, Jack."

Vladimir gave no answer, but Kelly shuddered, then gasped out, "Scotty, please."

Scotty looked at his partner, filled with a cold rage. If he'd been alone on this mission, this would have been simpler. "This is my responsibility, man. It's not your problem."

"That's funny, 'cause—I'm the one—trussed up like…_ohh_…"

Kelly's eyes squeezed shut as another spasm took him. Scotty felt the pulse thundering through his body, throbbing with the adrenaline generated by the urge to burst out of his bonds and get to Kelly, but showed no trace of his agitation. He'd made a mistake having his partner along, and now he would have to pay the price for that. Protect that life with his integrity, if necessary. "Sorry, Kel. You don't get to call the shots on this one."

"Damn it all to hell! _Scotty!"_

The door swung open, an aide entering. He nodded at Vladimir, speaking rapidly in Russian.

The KGB agent nodded. "Your intelligence is good. Go on, Mr. Scott."

"Scotty—c'mon! Please!" Kelly's handsome face was twisted with torment, but his pleading eyes caught Scotty's, drew them like a magnet. "That's enough!" The words were barely comprehensible through the harsh breathing. "I don't want to—have gone through this—for nothing!"

Scotty opened his mouth to speak, hesitated.

_"Scotty!"_

One of the aides pivoted on his heel and slammed his foot into Kelly's face. Vladimir surged to his feet and slapped the man as Kelly subsided into unconsciousness, blood trickling from his nose and mouth into his eyes. Panic gripped Scotty as his breathing began to gurgle. "Cut him down!" Scotty yelled. "He'll choke on the blood! Cut him down!"

"As soon as you finish telling me the rest of the names," Vladimir said. He looked at Kelly, whose breathing was becoming wetter by the second. "You'd better hurry up."

Half-blinded with rage, Scotty dropped his voice to a monotone. "Boito Andreiev. Mikhail Karpov. Nikolai Radezcy. Anton Sergeyevich…"

* * *

Five minutes later, Kelly lay on his side on the floor, his body twitching even in unconsciousness, as Vladimir placed a knife on the tiles, beside Kelly's hand. "Don't worry, it is very sharp. It should be another five minutes before he wakes up," the KGB agent explained to Scotty, "and another two hours at least before he regains the use of his limbs. That will give us the head start we need." He looked seriously at Scotty. "I told you I was a man of my word."

"When I see you again," Scotty muttered, "all bets are off."

_"If_ you see me again," Vladimir replied. "Let's go," he said in Russian to his assistants.

He could hear them slam the door and lock it even as he began saying urgently, "Kelly. Kelly. Kelly. C'mon, Jack! Rise and shine! Kelly. Kelly. _Kelly!"_

Kelly murmured, then moaned and stirred. He emitted an unintelligible mumble. 

"C'mon, Kel. Let me loose. There's a knife by your head. C'mon, man! _Kelly,"_ he snapped urgently, sensing the seconds ticking away. "You gotta cut me loose!"

"Oh…kay." The hooded eyes opened at half-mast, focused waveringly on the knife. Kelly attempted to move, and let out such a cry that Scotty was almost tempted to call it off then and there. Feeling cruel, he spoke again.

"They're going to get away with the list…"

Kelly looked up at him, still carefully not moving. When he spoke, his voice was slurred. "And whose fault is that?"

"I should have left you to be tortured?" Scotty snapped back.

_"Yeah!"_

"Sorry, Clyde, not part of the deal. Now get these ropes off me! I got a Benz to catch!"

"I…" Kelly raised a hand to grasp the knife, but his arm was paralyzed with cramps, and wouldn't obey. Scotty flinched as his partner's entire body shook with the effort to move. A spasm shuddered through Kelly and he cried out, biting it off and gasping for breath. Scotty inhaled and exhaled along with him in sympathy, watching the tremendous strength in the man as, twitching and shaking, he heaved himself over to land next to the knife, then shifted his head on his bent neck and grabbed the hilt firmly between his teeth.

"Y'know—man," Kelly gasped as he jerked spastically forward, his words only slightly distorted by the knife in his mouth, "I gotta bone… to pick… with you." As he spoke, he dragged himself towards the chair by inches, on one shoulder and one knee. Scotty could see what it cost Kelly to move, could see it in the set of his clenched jaw and hear it in the whimpers stifled in his throat, but his brave partner just paused, panted shallowly, and doggedly pulled himself forward. "I _begged_ you not… to do it, Jack! And you still… ignored me!"

"'S what I do best," Scotty said impassively.

"But I…begged you… not to!"

"And I told you it wasn't your decision to make."

"Since when—do we not—make—decisions," more desperate shallow breathing, "together?"

"Since… now."

Kelly would have had every reason to take offense, Scotty thought, but he seemed to divine the meaning behind the words. "Not… me being… it doesn't give you an exc…"

He gasped shallowly, straining for air, and Scotty snapped, "Save your breath."

"…kay."

When Kelly fell silent, Scotty set his jaw. They would never agree on this. Why were they arguing, anyway? He set his face in a forbidding frown to discourage further comment.

But it was impossible to stay mad while watching the crippled, crablike crawl that brought Kelly closer to him, by inches, by fractions of inches. Kelly was fighting his pain, his useless muscles, his savaged joints, moving forward regardless of the cost to himself, and it awed Scotty to see that courage, that strength, that towering will, cutting through the agonized floundering, the pain and helplessness. Scotty's stony expression melted, softened despite himself. "C'mon, Kel," he murmured. "You're doing great." He kept his voice upbeat, gentle. "That's it," he said encouragingly. "C'mon…"

A heartfelt groan from the floor. "Can we—cut—the cheerleading section?"

"Oh, excuse me, Captain Marvel, sorry for trying to help you along."

"You wanna—help—me along, you can start by getting off your duff…"

"I will as soon as you get here."

"I wouldn't have to…" a gulp, and shallow breathing. "…get there if you hadn't spilled the beans!"

"I was trying to save you!"

"Do I look like I need saving?" Kelly glared up at Scotty with his eyes only, as his head still hung limply, neck paralyzed by the long suspension. He must have seen something in Scotty's eyes, because he dragged himself forward another inch, and muttered to the concrete floor, "Don't answer that."

"I won't."

"Just don't."

"I said I won't."

"Wouldn't," Kelly corrected, almost there now.

Scotty looked down at his partner. With Kelly in a supine position, the few inches between the knife in his teeth and Scotty's hands tied to the back of the chair formed a seemingly insurmountable divide. "Is this any time to be pedantic?"

"Hey…" Reaching for the ropes, Kelly made a violent spastic jerk that brought him a few inches up off the floor, only to fall again, "…you're the linguist, man. Indirect—quote, you have to use the past tense. _Ah_."

"How did you know," Scotty pushed his hands down as far as he was able, trying to reach Kelly's mouth, "that there weren't little quotation marks in there?"

" 'Cause you didn't _pause_, man. Direct quote, you have to pause—" Kelly's voice cut off abruptly with a grunt of triumph.

Vladimir had been as good as his word; the knife was sharp. Even in Kelly's mouth, even with his uncontrolled, flailing movements, the blade parted the ropes in an instant, and Scotty's hands were suddenly at his sides, free. He rubbed them to restore circulation for a second (and if his wrists hurt, how must Kelly be feeling?) before bending to retrieve the knife and cut his ankles loose. Wasting no time, he surged up from the chair—

—and was stopped cold by the sight of Kelly, who had slumped to the floor, unmoving, now that his task was complete.

"Kel," he said, a little roughly. "Hang in there, 'kay?"

"No problem, I'll just wait here, work on my tan…" The thready, trembling voice told Scotty just how bad Kel was really hurting, how much he was holding back, but he had no time, no time to do more than bend down to brush a hand over the man's shoulder briefly as he picked the lock and bolted out the door.

* * *

He'd heard the car engine start shortly after the men had left, and his first move was to the terrace overlooking the spiral road that wrapped around the mountain, more of a frozen dirt path cutting through the fresh-fallen snowdrifts. His breath formed little puffs of condensation in the crisp, chill air. He remembered thinking, as they were bringing them up here, that the road that circled the cone-like mountain all the way round, down to the main roads below, was dangerous, too dangerous for a quick getaway if he and Kelly had been able to steal the car. The surface was too slick, the snow thick and threatening to avalanche at any moment, and there was no way any vehicle could drive fast down that narrow path with the sheer drop-off. Not the best place for a getaway scenario.

Which worked both ways.

Cocking his head, he listened intently. The rumbling of the Soviets' vehicle, amplified by the stillness of the surrounding mountains, was coming from the far side of the peak they stood on, although he couldn't pinpoint it with anything remotely resembling accuracy in this echoing silence, with no visuals. He scaled the low wooden railing, dislodging a shapeless, frozen hunk of snow. It fell to the deck with a wet crunch, and crumbled into sandy particles of ice as he scrambled to the edge for a better view.

The mountainside sloped so steeply down that there was no heroic thought of scrambling down the cliffside to intercept the automobile; it would be suicide. Instead, he surveyed the road below, his mind now nothing but an adding-machine. He counted eight curved, parallel swathes of road spread out before him on the mountainside, each perhaps thirty or forty yards above the one below it, before the view faded to too far away to be useful. It was almost an exceptional stroke of luck that there were no trees obscuring the view; the rocky, smooth surfaces had only a little scrub here and there, nothing more than soft lumpy shapes under the drifts of white. It occurred to him, irrelevantly, that he was cold.

The sound of the automobile was getting closer as it rounded the mountain, starting to drill a hole in the silence of the surrounding Alps, growing ever louder, with that particular high-pitched scratchiness that indicated a punctured muffler. He let it run in the background as he walked around, scrambled a little way down the cliff face, located a good-sized round boulder, dredged up what he needed from his long-ago physics classes. The road was… this little plateau the villa was on was what, three hundred yards across? 300 by 3.14, decimal points in this world of approximates were an irrelevance… and a little longer each time because it was conical, not cylindrical. Velocity, trajectory. He had to estimate the distance, the rate of acceleration, the approximate location of the limo when… the acceleration would equal velocity/time=v/f-v/i over (t), bearing in mind that this wasn't free-falling… what was the angle of this hill? For a moment, he lost himself in figures. Allowing for secondary factors, the scrub, the intersecting roads themselves… there were far too many variables, it was far too uncertain, too many unknowns, but the alternative plan was infinitely messier.

Scotty snapped to attention as the black shape of the limo rounded the mountain, smoothly gliding across the backdrop of glistening white. The car passed before him on the circular road – the third one down. His hand came up, eyes leaving the road for a split-second to focus on his watch, making a note of the second it passed. One more pass, then, to calculate how long a single revolution would take, with a little allowance for the fact that it would take a little longer each time due to the circumference increasing the closer one got to the ground…

He crept forward and waited.

Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the limo rounded the curve. Going at about ten miles an hour—driving safe, then. He'd have expected a little more speed, but by all accounts, Vladimir Dmitryev was a prudent man. Thirty yards extra next time, a few more seconds for the increased circumference… Scotty figured he had just under five minutes to put his plan into effect.

There was no hurry, but he worked quickly, his numb hands rolling the large, heavy boulder into position at the tip of the precipice. The frozen snow slicked it along, just as well since it was over two feet in diameter. Man, he hated this plan, hated it. It was far too unreliable. He counted off four minutes, then placed the palms of his hands flat against the rock and waited.

The sound of the automobile was coming closer, but he put less stock in that than in his own calculations. He ran the numbers through his mind one final time, said a silent prayer to the gods of physics and, at the fifteen-second mark, braced his body against the boulder and gave it a mighty heave. It slid easily down the slick, icy carpet, like pushing a watermelon, and flew off, hitting the ground a few feet below with a splatter of snow, and then started on its way, rolling and bounding down the mountainside.

Scotty flailed, almost slipping off the edge himself, but managed to shift his center of gravity, throwing himself back. The boulder was picking up speed, he noted, his eyes glued to the fast-moving shape as it bounced off the rocky mountainside. It would start the process of irreversible acceleration on the next incline, he calculated. The sound of the automobile was starting to grate through the silence again. Right on time. He allowed himself a moment of optimism; it might work, this might work, the combined weight of the rock and the not-quite-avalanche combining to bury the Russian agents' car. His eyes followed the rock as it bounced over the third swathe of road, heading unerringly for the snowbank on the slope below…

There was a blur. The boulder exploded into blood, painting the snow with a giant splash of scarlet. A broad swath of red trailed and pooled in the jagged track through the snow as the round rock rolled harmlessly to one side and bounced to a stop on the path, far above where the car was due to pass.

For a moment, Scotty froze, stunned. His mind, numb with cold and fatigue, stared blankly for a long moment, unable to form any concept of what had happened; it seemed inconceivable, almost mythical. _What…_

It felt like an age, but his paralysis must have only lasted a few seconds, for the car had not yet appeared when realization filtered in, as his eyes grew accustomed to the red splattered everywhere.

It was a stag, an Austrian Red Deer, once a gigantic, handsome specimen. Now what was left of him lay in a crushed welter of antlers and entrails, quite, quite dead. It still seemed surreal, illogical, and Scotty had to force it through his sluggish mind that the stag had charged out of nowhere at full gallop, perhaps seeing the boulder as a threat, and collided with the fast-moving rock, the force of the flesh bursting open enough to deflect the boulder's trajectory and bring it rolling to a stop…

…and before his watching eyes, the car rolled smoothly across the path below, and vanished harmlessly behind the curve of the mountain.

Scotty pounded a numb fist against his thigh, whirling and slipsliding back to the cabin. He had wasted so much time on this idiotic, imbecilic plan, and now it was back to Plan B anyway. Or Plan X. Or Plan Y. Or whatever in the world he was supposed to do now. He tripped as he stumbled up the stairs – it seemed colder than he remembered – and growled in frustration as his frozen hands fumbled with the doorknob. Cursing the world and everything in it, he slammed back the door to the cabin so hard it rebounded into the wall, and surged into the house.

And almost tripped over Kelly, lying in the hallway.

"What are you doing out here?!' he snapped, fear and frustration and worry and urgency spilling over into anger. The bruising on Kelly's lower back, under his hiked-up shirt, was more prominent than ever, and just seeing it turned Scotty's stomach all over again. "You think you're in any condition to be moving about?"

"You took… long," Kelly said, articulating his words carefully, managing to sound superior even as he lay curled up on the floor, paralyzed, with his bruised and swollen face. "Thought you might need a more experienced agent… to offer… assistance."

"Assistance. Assistance! I'll _give_ you _assistance_," Scotty muttered darkly as he bent over Kelly. How he'd crawled from the room to the door in his condition was something he didn't want to think about. "Look, I gotta get to the radio room. You gonna be okay till I do?" The grey-green eyes were already sliding shut. "Huh? You gonna be okay, Kel?"

Kelly waved a magnanimous hand. "Take the afternoon off, my good man." And with that, his head fell back, exhausted, against the floorboards.

Scotty straightened up, staring at his crazy partner for a second he couldn't spare. He realized he had some of his energy back, and felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then he bolted to the room he had noted when they were brought in. A plain wooden door with a floral pattern painted on it, Tyrolean and quaint and cosy and homey, and inside, an array of plastic and metal, steel and aerials and wires trailing all over the place. Scotty bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin. "Shoulda destroyed your radio setup before you left, Vlad old pal."

His satisfaction, such as it was, mounted as he saw the dial still set to the frequency Vlad had been using before he left. He'd recognized the crackle of LW radio, and identified the frequency as one frequently used behind the Curtain. "Tch, tch, tch. KGB trainers getting sloppy."

He turned on the radio and hailed the operator in his most flawless Russian. When the man answered, he snapped in a tone that brooked no argument, "Continuation of previous transmission. Please relay immediately the names of the following American agents in USSR military installations for verification and appropriate action." As soon as the man on the other end of the line gave the go-ahead, he began his recitation. "Valentina Kouznetsova, Olga Vassileva, Valery Konstantin," he waited for the Russian operator to take his notes and continued. "Andrei Illyich, Boito Andreiev, Mikhail Karpov, Nikolai Radezcy, Anton Sergeyevich…"

Disgusted, Scotty finally closed the connection as soon as the last of the names had been rattled off, miserable and mad at the world. This plan was his very last resort, trust to luck and the insecure transmissions to alert the agents behind the Curtain, hopefully in time to prevent them being captured, tortured, killed... And there was no guarantee of that, no guarantee that a man or woman or several wouldn't be compromised and caught because of his weakness, his failure to handle the situation.

He realized he was bending over, both palms flat on the radio console. Shaking his head heavily, he straightened up. The urge to just drop into an exhausted sleep was overwhelming, superseded only by the stronger instinct to see to Kelly, but both would have to be deferred until he could find them both a ticket off of this miserable mountaintop. His hands twisted the dial automatically to SW, hoping _someone_ in Washington wasn't asleep at the wheel and could patch them through to someone who could actually help.

After a few moments of tense static, the signal came through, and he commenced transmission. "Red Deer"—and how ironic was that? –"come in, Red Deer. This is Yankee Doodle." Who in the world thought up these stupid names, anyway?

"Yankee Doodle, this is Red Deer. What is the…" The radio operator asked for a security code, and Scotty rattled it off, satisfied that this would also allow the operator to trace the transmission and triangulate on their position. "It'll take a few minutes to confirm your identity and patch you through, sir."

"All right." It occurred to him, as he waited for confirmation, that these transmissions might be insecure too. Well, it wasn't like he wasn't going to be broadcasting anything the Russians didn't already know. Hadn't already told them of his own free will. Hadn't already blown, along with the mission and the cover of a hundred agents and let Kelly get hurt into the bargain. He shook his head despondently. _Some secret agent. Can't even protect…_

"Patching you through now, sir," came the operator's perky voice, followed by the click.

"Scott. About time you reported in." General Smith, the man in charge of this crummy, stinking operation, with a brusque manner and a sarcastic streak a mile wide. Scotty took a deep breath. _Stay cool, stay cool,_ he admonished himself.

"General." He forced a businesslike calm into his tone. He had no idea whether he was succeeding.

"What's your situation? Where's Robinson? Off with a girl somewhere?"

Scotty clenched a fist. "Injured. Situation compromised, sir. Mission is a qualified failure. They have what they came for and are enroute to home base…"

"What? Oh, that's just great. How did you blow it _this_ time?"

Scotty gritted his teeth. He knew that Smith was abrasive, but it never got easier, and he was not in the mood to shine it on right now. "They obtained the information by force…"

"And you couldn't take it. That's just what I should have expected from you two kooks."

Scotty tried to tune out the fact that the General seemed to be actively picking a fight. "We did take advantage of compromised communications security to get word to the – subjects of the information. However, as a precaution, I advise immediate notification and evacuation of all personnel in area of concern."

The official tone was back, and not a minute too soon. "This is a disappointment, Agent Scott. Disciplinary action will be taken upon your return."

"Understood." It meant nothing to Scotty. What could they do to him, anyway? Nothing would be worse than knowing those people had suffered and died because of his weakness. "Sir, we need a pickup. Medical chopper requested."

"What? Why?"

"My partner was… tortured," saying it was harder than he thought it would be, "and requires assistance."

There was the sound of flipping papers. "Is he in imminent danger of death?"

"Uh…"

By the time it dawned on Scotty's frozen, sluggish brain why the man was asking, by the time he realized that the only answer would have to be a lie, enough seconds had elapsed to make it moot. "I'll take that as a no, then. Your little tennis bum skinned his knee, huh?"

The image of Kelly writhing and screaming slammed his mind out of commission for a second, and he wanted to wrap his hands around the General's throat. _Cool, cool. _It was getting hard. "He has a suspected spinal…"

"I'm not running a finishing school for girls, mister. If you think I'm paying to send out a chopper to coddle a pair of candy-ass agents who couldn't keep their mouths shut…"

Scotty's vision washed to white, and he jerked at the effort of suppressing the urge to throw the transmitter across the room. "With all due respect, sir, I'm the one who couldn't keep my mouth shut, and Kelly's received injuries that…"

"Can't you get back to Vienna on your own?"

"Have you been _listening,_ sir? Kelly has a spinal injury! He can't WALK! We're stranded at the top of a mountain with no transportation! I know you're hacked off at us, but it's time you gave us some institutional support!"

"You're out of line, Scott!"

_"Are-you-going-to-send-that-chopper!"_

"We can send you a car. ETA two hours."

"Don't… sweat it," Kelly's voice came from the floor. "Just say—yes. We can wait."

Scotty whirled, the sight of Kelly curled up in the doorway blowing away the last remnants of his self-control. The frustration, the confusion, everything that had happened in the past few hours, all surged up within him. He realized he was probably losing it, but had no idea what to do about it. He took a breath, and schooled his face to calm. Speech, though, was beyond him.

"Go on," Kelly jerked his chin towards the radio, with what range of movement he had. "Go on."

Gripping the mouthpiece, Scotty grated into it, "Yes, sir. Two hours."

"If you can go that long without martinis and pretty girls," the General sneered.

"It's okay," Kelly repeated from his position in the doorway. "Shine it on. It's okay."

"Yessir. Have them bring a backboard," Scotty managed to say, and closed the connection.

And he wasn't sure how he'd made it, but he was finally, finally on the floor next to Kelly, his hands finally free to tend to him, to catalogue and soothe his hurts. Autopilot took over as he asked a hundred and one questions, hands never stilling as he slipped his hands under the sweat-drenched jacket, probed the line of the sciatic nerves, first right, then left, and blessedly eliminated the possibility of nerve root pain before moving on to other matters. Making Kelly twitch his numb legs, he checked for the (thankfully absent) symptoms of a prolapsed or ruptured lumbar disc. Then it was on to checking for the very real danger of cauda equina syndrome— "What do you mean, are my balls numb?" the indignance in Kelly's voice almost, almost making Scotty smile—thank heavens, it was beginning to appear that the most terrifying and serious dangers had been ruled out…

…and then he stumbled to his feet, rising, heading out into the snow again. Picking a clean drift, he scooped up handfuls of cold, white powder; belatedly realizing he had nothing to pack it in, he reached under his clothing and ripped off his undershirt, filling it up like a sack. Then back again into the house, kneeling next to Kelly. "Brace yourself," he said gently, steadying them both with a hand on Kelly's shoulder. He gripped him tight, then gently brought the soft cotton sackful of snow up to lie against the swelling where the blows had landed. Kelly twitched against the hand Scotty had braced against his shoulder. "Easy."

Suddenly, the tension drained completely out of the shoulder under his hand, and Kelly let out a long, gusty sigh. "Oh, man. That feels—wonderful."

Scotty rubbed Kel's shoulder gently, not in a massage, not yet. "Better, huh?"

The man before him gave a little whimper of contentment. "You… put out the fire, Stan."

Scotty winced at the admission, but figured as long as the burning sensation was gone then things were better already, and not the best idea to look a gift horse in the mouth. Holding the ice pack carefully against the swelling, he massaged one-handed around the areas of maximum strain, visualizing the position Kelly had been in, digging a thumb into the tiny point where the rhomboideus major met the trapezius, first left, then right, hearing the grunt as he found the points strained by contortion. He moved a hand up to the neck, fingers moving slowly against the muscle, carefully stretching the strained areas where the vertebrae had been compressed, grimacing as he remembered the torture, the neck twisted and straining in its unnatural position. He could do nothing about any joint damage, but he could ease the agony caused by the suspension. That, at least, he could do for Kel. If he wasn't making matters worse. Batting a thousand today… "Tell me if it hurts," he said sharply, through Kelly's moans of pleasure.

"I'll… send you… a postcard. Oh, keep doing that. Yeah. Oh-h-h, yeah, don't stop!"

Scotty smiled. "You keep makin' noises like that, the guys who come to get us are gonna think things."

"Think things? Don't you need… a brain… to do that?"

A gentle laugh bubbled up out of him, and he moved his hand down to Kelly's abused lower back. "Now here is where you really gotta let me know at once if anything starts hurting." He placed his hand on Kelly's flank, very gently pressing his fingers into the tense muscles there. Slowly, gradually, he began firmly stroking in an outward motion, to restore the blood flow and decrease the tension, paying special attention to the muscles around the hip joint. Any examination of the joints themselves, any damage, would have to wait till they got back.

He worked in silence for a while. Kelly's sighs of pleasure were a soft counterpoint to Scotty's harsh breathing, as he finally surrendered to the overwhelming relief that there didn't appear to be any serious spinal injury. But although he tried to banish it from his mind, he couldn't quite shake the thought of what could so easily have happened as a result of his failure to handle the situation, and to his dismay, his hands would not stop shaking.

"Scotty," came Kelly's voice, blessedly stronger, "how _you _doing, man? You okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, you know, capture, torture, the usual… can cramp a fella's style, y'know?"

Scotty set his jaw. "You're the one who was tortured."

His partner's voice was perfectly serious. "You think I'm that dumb, Ollie?" 

Should have known Kel'd see right through him. Scotty sighed gustily. "Umm…nnh."

"Such a witty response, man, I know my faith in your mental abilities isn't misplaced, you know, when you keep coming up with such gems."

"Sounds like someone's feelin' better."

"How could I not, when you throw such pearls of wisdom my way?"

"Yeah, well." Scotty smiled and moved to the cramping thigh and calf muscles. It was hard to massage with one hand, but he did it – there was no way he would let the cold compress fall from the swollen lump at the base of the spine.

"Hold up," Kelly said. Gingerly, he straightened his back, waving Scotty's protest away—"I'm fine, Mom"—and once he had, with effort, uncurled from his fetal position, he gingerly rolled onto his front, breathing hard. "I can move!" Kelly grinned in pleased surprise. "You, my good man, are a magician."

"Did you ever doubt it?" Scotty let the lightness of his voice hide the overwhelming relief that had him shaking worse than ever. The symptoms had been confusing – the paralysis could have been caused by a spinal injury or by the suspension – and while there was still much cause for anxiety, the mere fact that Kelly could do this meant that, at least, the terror of his being crippled for life could be permanently banished…Good, good, it was all to the good. He had to calm down. Now he could let the compress lie in place and use both hands. If they would just stop shaking. He folded them under his arms.

"You're hired."

"Gonna have to negotiate my fee."

"You get to tour the world."

"You'll have to do better than that—Clyde..." Now even his voice was shaking.

Kelly was silent, then rolled, with a grunt, onto his side, looking up at Scotty kneeling there.

The ice pack fell off. "Hey, man, watch that!" Scotty reached over, retrieved it, pressed it back in place. And now there was no way to hide the tremor in his hand from Kelly.

"Scotty," he said gently, "These things happen."

"There was a deer."

"A dear what?"

A high-pitched laugh suddenly burst out of Scotty, and he tamped down on it, fearing it sounded hysterical. From the extremely gentle, kind look he was getting from Kelly, his partner obviously thought the same. "Was… was gonna roll a rock – rock an' roll –" he laughed again "–send a rock rock-n-rolling down onto their car. Start an avalanche," he choked out between gasps of laughter. "Had the physics all calculated and everything."

"How did Signor Murphy figure into the equation?"

"A red deer, man," Scotty was definitely losing it, but his grip on the ice pack never wavered. It was his one chance at not blowing something this afternoon. "He just jumped in the way, man, one minute Papa was a Rollin' Stone and the snow was white and the next, bam!" His voice had risen in pitch. "Blood everywhere. On the snow. Talk about _roadkill_…" He laughed again, wondering why he found it so funny, wondering why he was so miserable underneath the hilarity.

Kelly's hand came up and gripped his forearm, the one holding the cold compress. His grip was still shaky, still fragile, but for all that it had a warmth and strength in it, like an anchor. "You alerted them by radio, didn't you?" he asked in that deep voice of his he used when he was in dead earnest.

Scotty nodded. "A hundred people, man. A hundred people and I let them down. What are the odds of all of them getting out, Kelly?" He grimaced in disgust. "However you slice it, this was a crummy operation."

Kelly was suddenly very still. "Shoulda let him do what he wanted to me."

Scotty let the compress drop, and shook off Kelly's hand, bolting to his feet. He stood there for a second, fighting the fight-or-flight response. Then, taking a deep breath, very deliberately, he knelt, replaced the compress, and resumed his massage.

"Scotty, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I know you were put in an impossible position. C'mon, Chester, talk to me. Ah, that feels good… C'mon, man, you gonna give me the cold shoulder or what? Scotty? Scotty?..."

Kelly went on and on, but Scotty closed his eyes, ignoring him. Banishing the whirlwind of thoughts that battered at his mind, he sank beneath the surface into the massage, the mesmerizing intimacy of the healing touch, feeling nothing but the warm flesh beneath his fingertips, concentrating until he felt he could almost see the intricacies of nerve and muscle beneath the skin. Submerged, he gave himself over completely to working on healing the damage, shutting out the flow of words, hearing only the grunts and sighs that told him the massage was helping, and said not one word until the rescue car came to get them.

* * *

He wished he could remain silent at the debriefing as well, but since when did any spy get what he wanted? Still, at least they'd had the decency to being them straight to a hospital.

So here he sat, ramrod straight, in a large, soft armchair of the 'family room' in the hospital, mechanically reciting details, times and places, names and faces. Alone; Kelly was still upstairs getting his X-rays, and Scotty was grateful for that, and for the fact that he'd been heard, that the agents on pickup detail had brought a backboard.

"I must state that the only reason this mission was not a complete failure was due to my partner's actions…" Another source of heartfelt thankfulness was that General Smith was safely in Washington, where Scotty hoped he wouldn't have to set foot until the man retired; the questioning was being conducted by Pete Harrison, one of the Department liaisons in Europe, whom they'd met once or twice. A bit high-ranking for a debriefing like this, but being an agent, not one of the top brass, Harrison looked like he might understand better what had played out. Scotty didn't care about disciplinary action, but if they tried to make him leave before he found out what had happened to Kelly, they'd have a fight on their hands. He'd been waiting for some time for the hammer to fall, especially when he related the tale of the deer, but nothing had been forthcoming so far. He began to breathe as he drew to a close.

"…and emphasize that despite his… debilitating… injuries," Scotty took a breath, "and at great personal cost, my partner managed to crawl over to me and cut me loose, permitting me to take the action described earlier." He set his teeth. "This concludes my report."

He tried to relax into the cushions, but couldn't. He let his mind wander to his anchor in this mess._ I wonder how he's doing now._ Now—barring complications, he really hoped Kelly would catch a break this time—he'd have to stock up on glucosamine and make sure every place they stayed had a hot tub. He still had the pressure bandages from the time they were in Spain, and…

"…Mr. Scott?"

He blinked. "Sorry. Sir?"

"I said, this must have been an ordeal for you."

For a moment, Scotty stared, uncomprehending, then gave himself a mental shake. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn the man was offering sympathy.

But he didn't want it. He didn't know what he was supposed to say, and fell back on, "Yes, sir."

The silence stretched on. Scotty found it hard to credit, but the senior agent looked—sheepish. "I trust your partner didn't… suffer too much?"

"He did, sir." No point in lying, and he was not going to spare this cat's feelings, not with the hell Kelly had gone through. Not with what had happened. What those agents… "Sir, those agents. Those agents whose names…" He swallowed. "…I gave up. I know it may be too much to ask, but… could you ascertain their positions and their safety?"

"Their positions?" Harrison gave him an odd look. "Nowhere, now, Mr. Scott."

_They've all been executed,_ was the first thought in his head. There was a pressure on his temples, as though the air in the room had transformed into a vise. The wall was tilting at a crazy angle.

He heard something or other through the buzzing and the heavy-limbed cold. Then there was something tight around his arm—a restraint, he batted it away—then a soothing female voice, and then hard floor under his head, soft cushion under his elevated legs. Huh?

"…Scott! Agent Scott… Agent Scott…"

He rolled his head this way and that, grainy vision resolving into a white dress and golden hair. A nurse was kneeling above him, taking his blood pressure, her body strange and foreshortened. Another, all arm and rough texture of cotton fabric, knelt next to him, offering a gigantic, distorted paper cup. He struggled to a sitting position, ignoring the nurse telling him "Slowly, slowly, sir," in accented English, took it and gulped it down—electrolyte solution. Fine, sure. Okay.

The room slowly resolved to normal size; the mists cleared from his head. He blinked up at Harrison, now definitely solicitous. "Are you all right, Agent Scott?"

"Fine." He settled with his back against the chair seat, his legs stretched out before him on the floor. He remembered what they'd been saying and the vertigo settled in again, but this time he merely closed his eyes against it and leant his head back against the cushion. "Can we… speak privately?"

He was too tired to do more than lean back again while the nurses left, then jerked to alertness at the slamming door. "How long was I out?" he asked in sudden alarm. "Is… is Kelly back from…"

"No, no, you were only unconscious for a few seconds," the senior agent said reassuringly, rising and securing the door.

He slumped slightly with relief. "Fainting like a schoolgirl, don't that just beat all."

"You had a lot on your mind." There was that unusual note in Harrison's voice, too—almost guilty? It didn't make sense… he was the one who had broken, if the responsibility for those lives lay anywhere, it lay with him… He stared vacantly at the senior agent's face until the man looked away.

"Just lay it on me," Scotty said softly. "They're all dead?"

The man's eyes widened in realization. "_OH!_ Is _that_ what… Oh, _no,_ Mr. Scott, nothing could be further from the truth."

Scotty stared at him in complete incomprehension. "You lost me, sir. I thought you said they were, uh, not anymore."

"That is because they have not been in active duty for several years." Looking at him, the man's face seemed to soften further, and Scotty didn't want to know what he looked like to get this kind of reaction from the senior, hardened agent before him. "We gave you a defunct list, Mr. Scott." Nothing. "A dummy list." It wasn't registering. "A decoy."

The man's words were falling down a cavernous chute, deep and echoing. They met no sense on the way down, just hollow, cylindrical metal walls. Dimly, Scotty could sense that he was trying to pull himself together. "'De...coy.'"

"Yes." There was shame in the man's voice, but Scotty wasn't registering much of anything, yet. "You had a list of agents long since recalled. The first five names only were names of active agents, prepped to pull out at a moment's notice, of course, in case he verified the information. We gambled that he wouldn't risk the entirety of the information with transmissions so compromised."

Why was it not registering?

A shamefaced smile. "As it turned out, we were right. The five agents are safely outside the Curtain and on a flight to the USA as we speak."

The blankness was relieved by the flicker of a cold flame. "And if they'd checked on more than five names?"

"They only checked on _one_ name. The margin for error was quite…"

His voice was low, calm. "You _gambled_ that he wouldn't risk the information?"

"It was a calculated…"

The flame was burning higher. "Five names?" He shuddered. He'd given four, at first. "What if they'd checked ten?"

"Transmissions were compromised. It was highly unlikely, Mr. Scott…"

_"You'd have gambled Kelly getting an ice pick in the spine on 'highly unlikely'?!" _The flame was surging up into his head, and he wasn't sure he could get the fire under control. Not sure he wanted to.

"I understand you're upset…"

"You don't. You can't." Scotty took slow breaths through his teeth, trying hard to regain some measure of equilibrium, not to shoot the messenger. Harrison was an agent like he was. He didn't make the plans. He just carried them out.

"It all turned out for the best," the other man wheedled. "The real list is in London right now, and…"

"And if it hadn't?" Scotty was still breathing deeply, trying to get his control back.

The senior agent suddenly looked at him, and it was the ruefulness, more than anything else, that arrested Scotty. "You know we're all expendable."

The flame suddenly burned out with a _phut,_ leaving nothing but ashes. "So," Scotty slumped limply back against the chair, "they assigned us to this just to play us for suckers?"

Harrison looked at him disapprovingly. "You were playing the important role of decoy while important intel was transmitted to a secure location."

Scotty shook his head against the headrest. He supposed he ought to be glad that no-one had really died from his incompetence, or perhaps he ought to feel betrayed, or responsible, but mostly he just wished he'd given up the names sooner, spared Kelly all that suffering. A flicker of rage tried to spark at the thought of his partner begging him not to give up the information, but it died, smothered. As soon as this was over, he'd go find Kel and take care of him. That was all that mattered now, out of this fiasco. _Fiasco…_"Smith knew, didn't he," Scotty muttered, still lying back. "All that about disciplinary action and the people we'd given up was just a load of garbage, wasn't it?"

"Transmissions…"

"That was why he was picking a fight with us?"

"We couldn't be sure that the radio…" Harrison was growing more sheepish by the minute. He'd seen Kelly carried in on a stretcher. He'd seen what this victory had cost them. Well, Scotty had no sympathy for him. None at all.

"He knew what would happen to us, and he sent us in blind." Scotty might have been mad if he hadn't been so drained. "All I want to know is, why did I let that happen to Kelly—and for _nothing?_ Why wasn't I in on it? Why didn't anyone help us? _Why?"_

"The minute they put Vladimir Dmitryev on the case," said Harrison, "we knew we had to come up with an alternate plan. We knew he would capture the team in transit. We knew he would do whatever he had to in order to wring it out of them."

"So you knew he'd use torture," Scotty's voice shook, "you just didn't know who they'd use it on. Well, _I'm_ the one with the fake list in my head, and _he's_ the one who's looking at six months of physical therapy, and that's if he's lucky!"

"Vlad the Impaler is a nasty piece of work," the man said gently. "Any agents captured by him would have a less than even chance of getting out alive. And no-one, no-one has ever come up against him with his secrets intact."

"I would have," Scotty muttered, "if I'd been alone." He looked at the other agent. "'Cept there'd've been no point, would there, seeing as they were fake secrets in the first place?" Grabbing onto the chair arm for support, he hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the agent's protests. "No business like show business," he muttered bitterly as he headed out to look for his partner.

"Agent Scott, for what it's worth…"

Scotty paused at the door, coldly. "General Smith withheld assistance from my partner, who's a better man than he'll ever be," Scotty said evenly, "and insulted him, and the next time he sees me, General or no General, he'll wish he hadn't." And he was gone.

* * *

The white nurse who'd given him the electrolyte solution directed him to a curtained-off cubicle in a ward, telling him the developed film would also arrive shortly. He walked past patients and visitors whispering in German, finally pushing the flowered pink curtain aside.

In the dimmed glow of the curtains, Kelly lay on his side, eyes closed, hair tousled on the pillow. Scotty looked him over carefully. The fist-sized lump on his lower back was visible even through the coverlet, making Scotty wince all over again, but his pale face was peaceful, the lines that had furrowed it smoothed out, the only blemish the purple swelling on the jawline where the KGB man's boot had landed. His chest was bare, swathed in a sheet; an IV drip disappeared beneath it into his arm. Scotty stared hard until he could detect the slight rise and fall, and breathed.

Scotty took a step closer, the seething rage in him slowly draining. Just the sight of Kelly resting comfortably, receiving the care he needed, helped ease the turmoil, calming and centering him. But… _That pillow should be higher, _the thought flared,_ those vertebrae should be straight!_

He moved silently up the bed on the side facing his partner and slipped a hand under Kelly's cheek, intending to support his head while he adjusted the pillow, only Kelly surprised him by lifting his head and opening his eyes. "…Ollie," he said. His voice was low and weak, but clear.

"You should be asleep. Relax," Scotty mock-snapped, cupping the side of Kelly's head, pushing the pillow higher where neck met shoulder, then lowering the head carefully to the elevated support. The sigh of relief he got made him smile down at his partner, and he pressed the neck muscles with careful fingers before slipping his hand out, his fingers brushing the soft hair.

Job done, Scotty's hands came to rest awkwardly behind his back. Kelly's sleepy eyes latched onto Scotty, as though he were afraid his partner would leave, and Scotty took a step forward, moving closer, resting one knee on the chair by the bed; for his part, he couldn't take his eyes off Kelly, the swelling on his face the only visible outward sign of the torture he had endured. _They better not send him on any missions after this, not till he's had some time off._ "How's every little thing?" he murmured.

"Your magic fingers… better than the doctors." Pain meds, he figured, the way Kelly sounded fuzzy. "How'd you do with… the vampires?"

"Aw, got one of 'em with garlic, drove a stake through the other guy's heart. The usual. All in a day's work."

Kelly's earnest gaze, though bleary, was insistent. "I'm… serious, wiseguy. What'd the vultures do to you… without your big strong partner to protect you?"

"Me? Nothin'." Scotty turned away to hide his bitter smile. "Not an everlovin' thing."

"Hey. Scotty…"

"Herr Robinson?" Saved by the bell, Scotty thought as he leapt to intercept the doctor. _Sigmund Freud,_ he thought; with the mustache and beard in the style made famous by the Austrian physician, the man was a dead ringer.

"Yes?"

The doctor looked at Scotty.

"I'm his partner. Alexander Scott." He held out a hand.

The doctor shook, walking around him to greet Kelly as well. "Good afternoon. I am Dr. Otto Freud." Both agents looked at him with dawning amusement and the medico held up a warning finger. "Please do not consider making any jokes. I have heard them all previously."

"Us joking? We'd never make jokes. Would we make jokes, Fred C?" Kelly's warm, smiling voice sounded in the small cubicle.

"No, no wouldn't dream, never, Dr. Freud, no siree," Scotty parroted, moving to the head of the bed and angling himself so that both he and Kelly faced the doctor, and placed a hand on Kelly's shoulder so he wouldn't get the bright idea of trying to sit up. The man opened the X-ray envelope and the humor died on Scotty's lips.

Dr. Freud smiled, just slightly. "Your back reveals no fracture, Herr Robinson…"

Scotty slumped, boneless, into the chair.

Kelly shifted, about to rise. Scotty stilled him with a hand. "Simmer down, I'll show you the pretty pictures later."

He glared at the doctor, gesturing to him to move into Kelly's line of vision, which he did. Pulling out the film, the doctor held the X-ray up to the light. "While there is no fracture, there is extensive swelling, possibly indicating a hematoma. We must make sure you do not have…"

"Uh, Doc, before you start, you might like to know the results when I checked."

"I beg your pardon?"

Scotty stood. "Hematoma, no question. Coccyx was struck repeatedly, and fourth lumbar with a blunt object, extremely violently. I checked for nerve root pain, doesn't seem to be a problem. Sciatic nerves check out okay all the way down. Pretty sure there's no prolapsed or ruptured lumbar discs. No sign of cauda equina syndrome." He paused, seriously. "I'd welcome some confirmation from an expert, though. You gonna do those tests now?"

The doctor looked slightly stunned. "No, we'll keep him overnight and run them in the morning." He appeared to regroup, looked curiously at Scotty. "You..."

"But I don't _want_ to stay all night!"

"Did I hear something?" Scotty said dismissively. "Nope. Must have been the fruitbats."

The doctor adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and peered at Scotty. "You said you were his personal physician?"

"Trainer."

"Ah, so you specialize in sports medicine?"

"And in having a big mouth," came the comment from the bed.

Scotty ignored both. "Applied cold pack to the hematoma by way of first aid…" he had to close his eyes to make the calculation, "…an hour to two hours after first inflicted."

"What do you mean, an hour to two hours?"

Scotty gritted his teeth. "He was hit repeatedly in the same place, at intervals." At the doctor's bemused stare, he added resignedly, "I was tied up for most of it."

The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Tied up? That means busy, in American?"

"No, it means he had ropes on his hands that probably took the skin off," Kelly supplied from the bed. Before Scotty could react, Kelly had him firmly by the forearm. "Why don't you examine him as well, Doc?" he asked impishly.

Afraid to jerk away for fear of hurting Kelly's shoulder, all Scotty could do was glare at his partner's smug face while Freud rolled up his sleeve. Yeah, there were rope burns on his hands, but compared to Kelly's injuries, they were laughable. "It's really okay, Doc," he said. "I'll get 'em seen to later," he added, just to pacify the grinning man on the bed. Whom he'd _deck_ as soon as he was on his feet.

Dr. Freud shook his head. "Man's inhumanity to man is… a source of great sadness to me," he sighed. Then he slipped the films into the envelope and shook out another set. "Based on what was… done to you," the doctor glanced with some bemusement at both of them, "your joints were also x-rayed, Herr Robinson."

Scotty was holding the prints almost before the doctor had finished extricating them from the sleeve. Freud raised an eyebrow at him, but let it slide. "You can read X-rays, I'm assuming," he said dryly as Scotty held them up to the light.

"Yeah, and chemical formulas, and Chinese, and Arabic, and Japanese, and Greek." Kelly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But he can't read Cyrillic."

Scotty slumped with relief as he stared: even in the imperfect x-ray, the hyaline cartilage, that smooth, white, shiny layer covering the bone itself, seemed intact as far as he could tell. Any damage to the elastic or fibrocartilage could be healed with nutrition and… he found he had sat down again, and Kelly was looking at him worriedly. "Careful," Scotty muttered, "don't move your neck."

"He's going to be well," the Viennese doctor said reassuringly. "You're going to be well, Herr Robinson." He glanced over at Scotty. "Now, here is what I shall do. I shall have Herr Robinson admitted overnight." He raised a hand to forestall Kelly's protest. "No discussions."

"That's kinda harsh, isn't it? Y'know, I could—"

"No, Little Engine that Could, 'could' ain't one of the things you could. Not this time."

"The perfect end to a perfect day," Kelly muttered, a little fussily. "Hang around all day, then spend the night in sterile, starched sheets!"

And out of the blue, without knowing how he knew, Scotty _knew_ that Kelly didn't want to spend this night alone. Come to think of it, he'd prefer not to either, although he could. Just fine. He rounded on Kelly. "I know it's a change of pace from steamy, starched strippers," he shot back, "but maybe just once you could…"

"Herr Scott!"

Dr. Freud was looking at them both, keenly, observantly, and Scotty suddenly felt exposed, transparent. "Doc?"

But what followed was a nonsequitur. "Herr Scott, the injuries to your hands are severe, are they not? You'd say they require hospitalization, wouldn't you?"

Scotty blinked._ "These? _You're kidding me, right?"

The doctor regarded him knowingly. "Well, they might not require overnight stay if you are planning to go home after Herr Robinson is admitted and sleep for eight hours in your hotel, and reappear at start of visiting hours tomorrow morning."

"I could," muttered Scotty rebelliously, studiously not looking at Kelly, a mere flicker in the corner of his eye. "Why couldn't I?"

"In that case, we can apply salve and bandage and send you on your way," said Dr. Freud. "You can come back after Herr Robinson has his tests tomorrow, unless you want to be there while they are conducted." A mental image of Kelly submitting to tests on his abused joints, all alone, surfaced and faded, unnervingly. "If, however, you would prefer – for example, if there are renovations in your hotel, or if the men who did this to you might come back – if you feel it might be prudent to…"

"Whoa, whoa, doc," Scotty smiled, his first genuine smile in what felt like ages. "You don't have to be that careful of my pride. Yeah, it'd be real good to stay here with Kelly. Ow! Ow! My hands are killing me!" He looked at the doctor. "That good?"

"Gonna have to give you acting lessons," floated up the voice of the wiseguy in the bed beside him.

* * *

"Good night."

"Night, nurse. Night nurse…"

Gratefully watching as his ministering but noisy angel of mercy clattered out of the room on clicking heels, Kelly settled back into the starched sheets, every bit as unwelcoming as he'd thought they'd be. Despite this, he felt sleep clinging, but resisted. He had to keep his eyes open until Scotty came out of the bathroom; it would be the first chance for a private word with him since the whirlwind of hospital admissions. He was glad Scotty seemed calmer now. It had unnerved Kelly badly to see his normally unflappable friend so unbalanced, so fragile. That was a dirty trick Dmitryev had played on his partner. He, Kelly, would have a set of sore joints to show for the experience—though the medication had pretty much remedied all that—but he knew that it was Scotty who would bear the scar.

Scotty, and the hundred people he'd given up to save Kelly's worthless hide. Why on earth he was worth a hundred people's lives to Scotty was an unfathomable mystery to him, but Kelly was nothing if not practical, and the fact remained that this was the case.

His eyes drifted shut, the side-effect of floating on a cloud of endorphins and painkillers, but he snapped them open doggedly. The least he could do was see his partner for a minute before he fell asleep, find out what had happened to those hundred agents. A hundred and one if you counted Scotty and his torments of conscience. Every one of those people was a millstone round Kelly's neck, every one they couldn't get out would lie like a weight upon his soul. All because they'd exploited Scotty's sweet nature to wring it out of him, and used him, Kelly, as a lever.

Kelly grimaced, disgusted with himself. Boy oh boy, had he ever been a fifth wheel on this mission. It was Scotty who'd had the information, Scotty who'd been the go-to guy, while he'd hung around, literally. All he'd been was a deadweight. Literally, again. It would have been better if his partner had undertaken this as a solo mission, if he hadn't been along to hold Scotty back. But no; if he followed that thought to its logical conclusion, it meant that it would have been Scotty who was trussed up like a sacrificial animal, Scotty who was kicked and hit—the mental image flashed across his brain, and he shuddered. No, all things considered, he liked things the way they were—well, maybe not _liked, _but the alternative, he couldn't handle.

Except for the part where a hundred people were dead because of him. He wasn't worth that. He wasn't worth _one_.

His burning eyes drifted shut despite his best intentions, and he surrendered unwillingly to sleep.

It was dark and quiet when Kelly's eyes opened. There was no clock, but by the depth of the stillness, he placed the time as three, four in the morning. His body throbbed as he lay on his side, the soreness in his aching joints making itself known._ Maybe that's what woke me?_

He blinked and tried to see more clearly, but there was only soft, inky velvet relieved by the outline of the window, stark squares of purple sky. Clouds, a lighter purple, reflected the soft glow of the Viennese night. He remained still, letting his eyes adjust to the dark…

Scotty was standing by his bed, a silent sentinel in the shadows.

For a moment, Kelly looked up at him. His guardian angel. The man to whom he brought nothing but grief. He pasted a smile on his face. "Shouldn't all good little boys be in bed?"

Scotty jumped, then covered his real shock with a mock-yelp. "Aw, man! You training for a horror movie? Just go around scaring people like that?"

"Go around?" Kelly retorted. "I'm right here in bed, you're the one who's prowling around like a vampire!"

"A vampire? A vampire? I like that! I'm just taking my constitutional, man, just taking the air…"

"Taking the air? Out of what, an oxygen mask? Since when is my bed a boardwalk?"

An awkward silence. He'd embarrassed Scotty. "I was," he mumbled, "I was just going to the store anyway."

"Naw, wait, wait up." He reached out a hand to stop his partner, and a bolt of pain shot up his shoulder joint. He couldn't quite repress a gasp.

Scotty whirled. "You need more of that pain medicine?"

The thought of loud, perky voices, white dresses and fluorescent lighting made Kelly suppress a shudder. "In a little while, maybe. Can't stand having the nurses clattering in here now."

A rustle. Scotty turned to his bed, then Kelly felt a hand slide under his knee-joint, lift his leg slightly; then a soft pillow was placed carefully in between his throbbing knees. The warm grip eased Kelly's knee down into the softness, and Kelly sighed with relief as the pain abated considerably. He relaxed for a moment and let his eyes drift shut as his partner patted his leg, adjusted the bedclothes, pulled the covers back over him. Then there was a hand across his brow; he couldn't make out his partner's face, but the lightness of the touch told him Scotty was kidding. "Kelly Robinson refusing the company of beautiful nurses? You sick, man, you got a fever?"

Kelly snapped to awareness, reached up and caught the outstretched arm by the wrist, prepared for the pain this time and pushing through it. "Scotty, I've got to know," he said, his voice dropping. "What happened to those agents? You get any intel?"

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't the bitter, quiet laughter from the man silhouetted against the square of purple night. The arm withdrew, and against the glow of the Vienna sky, the black shape of his partner took a step back, arms folding tightly across his chest. "Intel," Scotty said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Yeah, I got _intel."_

Kelly's heart sank. This sounded bad. "Did they… get out?"

"They were never in." Kelly waited quietly, knowing Scotty would explain the cryptic statement. When it came, it was borne on a sigh. "They fed us false info, man. We were the clay pigeon."

Kelly fell completely silent, the repercussions and ramifications reverberating through his consciousness. His injuries throbbed, more insistent now that they were all for nothing. Damn the brass to hell, anyway, this wasn't the first time. Why did they keep doing this, why did they keep trusting their superiors, why did they go on?

And then, just like that, his mood flipped. Out of nowhere, relief and exhilaration surged through him, bursting forth in a completely unexpected smile. "That's wonderful."

He saw the dark shadow shift. "What?"

Kelly tried to explain his relief, haltingly. He knew Scotty would feel the same when he told him, when he explained. "The agents are safe, Scotty! All of them! Isn't that great?"

"No," the low voice echoed, "no, I can't say it is."

Scotty was just suffering from reaction; that was natural. Kelly spoke excitedly into the blanketing night, wishing he could see Scotty's face. "Scotty, don't you get it? Nobody died! Nobody suffered! We didn't… nobody got hurt because of us! That's… oh, man, that's _wonderful."_

The voice that came from the darkness was dangerously cold. "Nobody got hurt?"

Oh. Now he knew what was eating Scotty. "C'mon, a hundred people? That's worth a few aches and pains."

"Aches and pains?_ Aches and pains?!"_ The silhouette moved, dark against the purple sky in the window, and Kelly flinched at the low, controlled fury in his partner's voice. "He had an ice pick at your back! I thought he'd already crippled you for life!"

"I'm sorry…"

Scotty's voice only sounded madder, echoing in the blackness. "Sorry? He damaged your joints! He bollixed up your back! He put you in the hospital! What have you got to be sorry for?"

"…I'm sorry he did that to you."

His normally calm, collected partner raised both arms, ran his hands over his head. A cloud moved in the night sky, revealing a tiny star just visible behind his black silhouette, its fragile light struggling to shine through. "He did that to me? He did that to _me?"_

"You keep repeating yourself, Clyde, what's up with that?"

"I was fine! You're the one who…"

Kelly didn't let him finish. "You know, 'Agony is an occupational hazard,' " he quoted lightly.

"You're not expendable, Jack."

_Say what?_ "Neither are you." He looked at the silhouette. "Nobody is."

Scotty snorted softly. "Couldn't tell by the way they treat us."

Kelly still felt strangely uplifted. "For a hundred people…"

"For a_ thousand!"_ Kelly had never heard that tone in Scotty's voice before. "I can't be asked to choose! You're…"

The enormity of the dilemma Scotty had had, the choice he had been forced to make, hit Kelly full-on. He struggled to find words. "I'm indispensable, an asset to the world, I know, Stanley, I know." Kelly grimaced at the implicit admission of their bond, this bond that had become a liability. "But we can't let that interfere with the job…"

"Forget the job," Scotty said, voice deep. "I'm never letting you – _that's_ my job."

Kelly knew the words ought to reassure him, but instead they just scared him. "And the next time it's a choice between me and a hundred people?"

"It was a lie. I'm not gambling—everything—on a lie."

"But if it was the truth?"

Even in silhouette he could see the stubborn set of the jaw. "You're worth more."

Kelly shook his head, knowing it was the shock and grief talking. "I wouldn't want that on your conscience."

"My _conscience?" _Then a derisive, wordless sound. The shadowy figure shifted, stark and alone against the soft, purple clouds in the Viennese sky. He bent slightly, folded his arms, shook his head.

"Listen, Scotty, next time…"

"If there is a next time."

Kelly chilled. "What do you mean?"

"Aw, man, I don't know what I mean." Scotty's lean form sank into a seated position on the bed opposite him, arms still wrapped around himself. "I don't even know what I mean any more."

"Do you want to quit the job?" Kelly asked out of desperation.

"Maybe I should, since I'm not up to the responsibility."

"Not up to the responsibility? You want to protect everyone, all the time, then you're in the wrong line, Jack, you wanna go into business as a tailor." Kelly gritted his teeth; his joints really were starting to hurt, but he had to get this said. "Besides, if anyone should quit, I should," he retorted, "since I'm the fifth wheel they use as a lever against you."

The silhouette of the bent head rose, slowly. "You out of your everlovin' mind, Clyde?"

"No, I think I'm making sense."

"That'd be a first. 'Sides, you can't use a wheel as a lever, you're mixing your metaphors, Cicero, really. And you've gotta be round, besides, and have, you know, spokes and stuff."

"That's a bicycle wheel. I'd be at least a wheel from a truck. Big and strong."

"'Aw, Kel, will you can it about the fifth wheel thing? Lever, fifth wheel, not in the mood for physics now, man. My lumbago can't take it."

Kelly had never been more serious. "It's the truth."

"Fine." And all the humor was gone from Scotty's voice in the blackness. "The _truth,"_ Scotty's arms unfolded gradually to rest on the bed, "is that you were hurtin' worse than I'd ever seen you, and still you were _begging_ me to let them… do that to you. The only kind of guy who'd do that is a genuwyne, honest-to-God, should-be-in-a-Greek-legend-killing-Minotaurs _hero_, Jack!"

Kelly was warmed and flattered at the hyperbole even as his mouth quirked in amusement. "Minotaurs?"

"Not just one, either, whole _flocks_ of 'em!"

"Flocks? " Kelly was smiling now. "I thought Minotaurs moved in, y'know, herds. Don't you gotta have wings to flock? Flocks is like, rooks. Pterodactyls, um… Unicorns…"

"Herds, flocks, whatever." Scotty cut him off. One arm waved expansively against the Vienna night. "You were begging me not to talk, begging me to let them hurt you, and that's, that's just Minotaur country, man."

Kelly's mouth fell open as he realized his partner wasn't kidding. He tried to speak, took a deep breath, and fell silent. Scotty was making too big a thing of it, of course, but there was no real answer to that.

"Besides, you're feeling bad for no reason." The lean chest rose and fell against the window. "If it hadn't been you, y'know, if I'd been alone, well then, the way Vladimir operates, they'd have hauled in some kid, some innocent off the street and tried the same trick on him! And it mighta worked, too! What man with an ounce of humanity in him can watch something like that and not do whatever he can to stop it?"

Kelly felt the weight lift from him at the same moment the black silhouette stilled. Scotty had realized what he'd just said.

And bless him, his practical partner took it in, and ran with it. "So it's just as well I got me a pro," Scotty's tone lightened, and Kelly could feel the smile in the dark, "who untied me the minute they were out the door, huh?"

"Ah, so now you're admitting I'm a pro."

"Taught you everything you know, man."

"Except for a few tricks here and there."

"Maybe a trick or two."

"You still thinking of coming in out of the cold?" Kelly asked seriously.

"Not just yet. But if they keep lying to us, I don't know, Hoby."

"I can dig it."

"How 'bout you?" asked the dark shape opposite him. "Still thinking you're a fifth wheel and getting crummy ideas like I should let you get hurt?"

Kelly was silent a moment. "If you're not coming in out of the cold, I guess I can't be a fifth—wheel, now can I?" His breath hitched a little as a particularly sharp twinge went through him.

"Good." Scotty didn't sound all that convinced, but his partner knew when to let things ride. "I think now might be a good time to call in one of those nice nurse-type ladies, yes?"

"Might be a good idea, yeah."

The starched sheets on his partner's bed made their own particular starched-sheet sound as Scotty rose, his soft silhouette crossing the window one last time to come and press the buzzer next to Kelly's head. It was ridiculous, he knew, but just the aura of the other man standing there made him feel better.

Kelly's indrawn breath sounded loud to his own ears in the dark; Scotty had turned to him and taken his burning shoulder joints in a firm grip, bracing him against the live-wire pain. Kelly sighed deeply as the cruel hurt receded under the warmth of his partner's hands. "Need to start getting you fixed up," Scotty said.

"I'm all… for it," Kelly responded, relaxing more with every moment of Scotty's touch, "but I don't think I'm up to physical therapy just yet."

"You take all the time you need, Kel," Scotty murmured, his hands shifting a little, thumbs pressing hard, taking away the pain, making him gasp and shudder. "You just take all the time you need. The world can wait."

The room was flooded with fluorescent light as the white-capped nurses bustled in. Kelly slammed his eyes shut against the onslaught—Scotty's hands shifted, and Kelly could tell he was going to move away. "Don't," he said, opening his eyes.

"Okay," was all his partner said, and the comforting, soothing touch stayed.

"Might have to fire you." As the nurse pushed the medicine into his IV, Kelly closed his eyes again, but not before he caught sight of Scotty's face. The man's unguarded expression was strained, and Kelly could tell that he needed help just as much as he, Kelly, did. Maybe he could wangle a few weeks' vacation out of the brass on the strength of his injuries.

Then again, maybe not. They always had lived their lives on the knife-edge, constantly flirting with danger, more often than not at the end of their resources. Kelly wasn't sure he was ready for a change, not just yet. Then again, if Scotty said the word…

It was getting increasingly harder to think as the drug took effect, and Kelly inclined his head, bringing his cheek to rest against Scotty's forearm, drawing strength and reassurance from the touch. His heart filled. With Scotty by his side, everything would be all right. They'd handle it, they'd get through this as they got through everything else. As long as they were together.

Anything else, he'd think about tomorrow.


End file.
